a writing exercise

Despite his attempt to focus upon the task at hand, Jordan’s eyes nevertheless stole from the blackboard and its tauntingly yellow chalk to glance at the spreading wetness in the crotch of his pants. Against his army green trousers the darkness of his shame was a blaring icon, and the striking red blush that had crept into his cheeks further labeled him as soiled goods. A test fell hard on his desk and the white glare of the paper under cruel fluorescent bulbs seemed to further outline his terrible predicament. For a brief moment he considered standing and begging a nurse’s pass, his empty exam a flag of surrender, but fear glued him to the seat and uniformity stayed his mind. If he bent and scribbled and could blend with his peers, perhaps once the tests were grayed with graphite his vital embarrassment would evaporate into nothingness and return him to army-green schoolyard normalcy.

Jordan’s crotch had cooled by now and was in fact becoming quite frigid, causing him to shiver involuntarily. The steel desk at which he sat was aided in its discomfort by a spreading lukewarm puddle; every once in a while a cold drip would slowly wend its way down his leg and slide into his soft cotton sock, made soggy with urine. Hotness grew from a tiny lump in his throat up into his cheeks, manifesting in a nauseatingly warm blush. He clutched his pencil, solid and strong, and attempted a few short answers on the test page, but to no avail. Jordan’s body, confined by the paralysis of shame, was reluctant to free even his mind from the relentless grasp of anxiety.

A few clumsy scratches later and Jordan was no closer to an answer. His test, empty and blank before him, seemed to reflect his mind, serving only to increase the creeping panic that was threatening his classroom-induced calm. The desire for each and every one of his peers to simply disintegrate into nothingness was overwhelming him, and it closely matched his intent desire to run home and crawl, sobbing, into his mother’s gathering embrace. He comforted himself with this fanciful imagining, picturing her storming into the office, demanding justice for her ill-treated son, detained so long in a situation so deplorable. A small smile wandered to his lips, and he lifted his weary lids—and froze.

Black pupils pierced his core and he felt skewered with the hard stare of his teacher. A glance from the clock to his paper showed that a substantial amount of time had passed with nary a gray scratch upon his page. His heart stirred uncomfortably towards his throat, and gave a great pounding burst as he watched with horror his teacher lift her soft, crooking finger and beckon him smartly to the front of the room. Her eyes would not leave his, and his body went rigid in imitation of nature in its most terrifying moments. The green of his crotch did not yet match the green of his pants, and yet he could not stall any longer, not while that hook of a finger reeled him ever closer to his doom.

He recalled some words his father had said, about a man and the courage to face his own weaknesses. The lump in his throat was sticking fast, and he gulped hard to swallow it. He rallied himself. He knew of the arms awaiting him at home, of the kerchiefs and perhaps even cookies. Comfort was beyond this final hurdle, this simple straightening of the leg and squaring of the shoulders. He had to face this. Tilting his chin up, Jordan shoved forward his desk and stood.

A single teardrop issued from his pants and fell, so slowly, so far, to the ground, breaking against the linoleum like so many leaky faucets. He caught his breath. He straightened his spine. All eyes turned to him.